She walked up the street holding proudly the suitcase in her arm swinging at the rhythm of her quick steps. She was happy, indeed. This monthly five sheets text (lasting the 10 minutes speech time fixed for each reader) had ended up to be quite nice. It took her more than one week to finish it, every night fifteen minutes before going to bed. Always, after her daily dinner with Jaime at 8 o’clock, when they both finally arrived at home. It was impossible to meet earlier; their jobs were in opposite parts of the city, Jaime´s in the southern area specifically designed for financial buildings. Hers, on the opposite extreme, where all sort of business had their headquarters, as it was the core of the national economy and a big game of the global one. Oh yes, she was satisfied; she´d created a heartbreaking tale, that channeled all the pains hidden behind her deepest thoughts. And she had loads of them. Since her childhood, she´d been known to be a very sensitive girl, pretty perceptive of the huge unfairness dwelling in the world. Her piano teacher used to tell her mother: look that nostalgia striking the instrument keys through such delicate fingers.
And hence, there she goes, entering the pub wrapped in avant-garde decoration. Yet from the threshold of the mahogany door, she could see her bunch of colleagues speaking at the furthest corner (a poet must be discrete, sine qua non condition). Smoothed her skirt out, put her hair apart with a quick movement of the neck and.. “Hello guys, how are you tonight?”
What such ignorant those who criticize her as a bourgeoise feigning progressive ideas. Idiots those who scorn her group of friends for being “intellectuals of cigar and coffee shop”. Don’t they deliver appealing readings up in the stage, touching the audience´s hearts with words full of sincere pain, awareness and consciousness of the fatal slippery slope where the World is going through? Don’t they, afterwards, discuss hour after hour the social policy that could help the homeless out of dumps and the poor out of misery? Don’t they, I ask, don’t they spend every month 1 % of the profits made at the pub´s lecture night in a chosen charity?
Fuck them all, those fool don’t have the slightest idea of what Revolution is. Next month we´ll show them how a subversive poem sounds like. “And what about tomorrow?” Tomorrow? Tomorrow it´s impossible, I have a whole day meeting with the management team at office…
3 comentarios:
Mi inglés está bastante oxidado pero lo voy a intentar:
I think the people in the coffee shop it's a great picture about what happen in our world (not the world) now. People forget where they come and almost everytime they don't remember their parents suffered many hardships. Thus we become unsupportive people and we'll just care for what look we show to the stupid and banal outer world.
Thank you for your tale and keep writing
Bueno, creo que no quedó del todo mal ajjajaaj.
Un besazo wapa sigue escribiendo, que siempre se agradece leerte.
Confirmado wapa, en mayo pasare por Londres aunque ya me dijo nuestra niña de Ecija que no es seguro que estes por esas fechas. Espero que no sea así y podamos recorrer la historia del Punk como prometimos.
Un beso
Uy!! en princpio mi aventura londinese termina justo el 30 de abril (quién sabe dónde será la próxima :)) Pero vamos, cuenta con que, si tengo la suerte de pillar algo por aquí, nos liamos manta y petate y partimos en busca del origen del Punk!! :)
Salva, I´m so happy to see you over here! Yes, indeed, emptiness, words, discourses and rethoric without anything inside that really supports them, are one of our biggest diseases..
And the cure? Making the word dwell in the real action (of thought, of movement, of whatever, but real :))
Çok öptüm seni arkadasim, selamlar antepte!!!!
Publicar un comentario